The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  Gibson nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Margie drew in a deep breath and then another. “Okay. Let’s get this over with so we can all start trying to move forward.”

  Manningham stared at Margie for a moment, nodded his head and extended a hand towards the door. Without prompting, Gibson made his way into the room and went straight to the head of Tyler’s bed. Already in place was a stainless steel operating tray, a series of syringes waiting for him.

  One by one, Dr. Gibson inserted them into the IV in Tyler’s arm, checking the monitors by the bed as he went.

  When he was done, he looked at each of them in turn. “It should take about three-to-five minutes for the reversal agent to wake him.”

  Margie nodded and took a place beside Tyler, gripping his hand and counting off the seconds in her head.

  By the time she reached two hundred, his eyelids began to flutter. By three hundred, a deep and violent cough began.

  On cue, Manningham disappeared from the room and returned a moment later with water, holding it to Tyler’s lips and tipping it back. Not quite awake, Tyler drank the water in long gulps before laying his head back and remaining motionless.

  Almost ten minutes passed before Tyler again blinked his eyes open. When he did the haze that had clouded them before was gone, his breathing even and normal.

  “Mom? What are you doing here?”

  Margie tried to answer, her face contorting itself into a sob before a sound escaped.

  Fear and surprise flashed behind Tyler’s eyes as he pushed his gaze over to Manningham. “What happened? The last thing I remember was working out.”

  “Tyler,” Manningham began, but Margie raised a hand to stop him.

  “Could you give us a minute, please?”

  Manningham stared at her a moment before nodding. “Of course.”

  Together he and Gibson left the room without another sound.

  Margie waited until the door closed behind them and stared down at her son. Tears streamed down her face as she stood above him, searching for the words.

  “Mom, what happened?”

  “Sweetie, you had another accident,” Margie said, her voice no more than a whisper.

  Tyler stared back at her, terror registering on his features.

  “There…there was just too much damage. There was nothing they could do.”

  Tyler’s eyes grew a bit larger, tears of his own beginning to leak from his eyes.

  Margie tried to force herself to continue, but the words failed her. Instead she turned her gaze to the flattened stretch of bed where Tyler’s leg should be, a single sob sliding from her throat.

  Tyler saw his mother’s gaze and raised his shoulders up from the bed. It took a moment for his mind to register what he was seeing, his face twisting itself into a mask of anguish as he dropped himself back onto the pillows, his entire body quivering.

  Before he could say a word, Margie threw herself down atop her son. After a moment his arms found their way around her.

  Neither one moved for a long, long time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Margie stayed by Tyler’s side until he cried himself into exhaustion and fell into a deep sleep. Not the peaceful sleep of a man weary after a long day, but rather the uneasy sleep of a man too exhausted to take any more.

  If not for the task she was about to perform, Margie would have been in the same exact position.

  As soon as Margie was certain Tyler would be asleep for some time, she stole from the room and down the stairs to the main level. Her face was red and puffy, clothes disheveled, hair a tangled mess, but none of it even registered with her.

  All that did was the tiny, persistent flame burning within.

  Margie burst through the stairwell door onto the main level and out into the hallway, peering into open doors and meeting areas as she passed. Several people cast her wary glances as she went by and a few even attempted to ask her if she needed help, but she blew past them and continued with her search as if they didn’t exist.

  She spotted Sarconi filling a tall Styrofoam cup with coffee at the end of the hallway and went straight for him. He spotted her from the corner of his eye a moment too late and tried to turn a shoulder to her, a move that only heightened her animosity.

  She was on him before he had a chance to move, gripping his elbow. “Where’s Pinkering? We need to talk.”

  Sarconi glanced from her face to his elbow and back again. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know where Dr. Pinkering is right now.”

  Through gritted teeth Margie seethed, “Then call him, you sanctimonious bastard.”

  Sarconi again glanced at her grip on his arm. “He’s a doctor for crying out loud, he has responsibilities. I’m sure wherever he is right now is where he needs to be. Now, is there something I can help you with?”

  “You can help me by finding Pinkering and the two of you explaining why the hell my son lost his leg today!” Margie raised her voice several levels, both out of frustration and to let Sarconi know he wasn’t the one in charge at the moment. The tone also brought along the side benefit of causing several curious onlookers to begin peering down the hall at them.

  “Ms. Bentley, please. Maybe it would be best to give you a day or so to calm down, perhaps reconvene tomorrow when cooler heads have had a chance to prevail.”

  “Do not patronize me and do not talk down to me,” Margie grunted, her voice lower but just as venomous. “Get his ass here now or I will make the biggest scene this hospital’s ever known.”

  Sarconi stared for a moment at the fire burning in Margie’s eyes, then pulled a phone from his hip and dialed a number. “Herb? Yeah, meet me down here by the coffee pot. Ms. Bentley has asked to see us.”

  Margie released the grip on Sarconi’s arm and stood back with arms crossed. A full minute of silence passed between them before Dr. Pinkering swept into the room. He wore the practiced expression of a man used to delivering bad news and extended his arms as if to give Margie a hug.

  “Don’t you dare touch me,” Margie warned, her demeanor stone. “Now, should we do this in private or right out here in the open?”

  “Please, Ms. Bentley...” Dr. Pinkering began.

  “Private or here?” Margie repeated, her voice rising.

  Dr. Pinkering drew himself up a little higher and extended an arm down the hall. “There’s an empty conference room just this way.”

  Margie went first, giving him a contemptuous stare as she passed. Sarconi followed behind her, flicking his gaze towards Margie before rolling his eyes. Dr. Pinkering smirked before circling back in front and leading them into the conference room.

  The room was little more than a basic meeting area, with an elongated table dominating the space and a series of high-backed chairs around it. Sarconi went straight to the nearest one and took a seat as Dr. Pinkering closed the door and joined him.

  Margie chose to remain standing, pacing back and forth as her hatred-filled stare never left them.

  “Why the hell is my son now lying upstairs without his leg?” The words were clipped and measured, the tone clear.

  Dr. Pinkering raised a hand and said, “Ms. Bentley, we’d just like to start by saying how sorry—“

  “Do not give me that!” Margie screamed, her hands balled into fists by her side. “Why the hell is my son missing a leg?!”

  The two men sat in stunned silence for a moment. Margie stopped pacing and stared down at them, hell bent not to let either one off the hook.

  “Ms. Bentley,” Sarconi said, “you can’t think this is through some fault of ours, do you? This was a freak accident, nothing more.”

  “Nothing more? How many people have joints replaced every day in this country? How many of them are now lying around without a limb?”

  “Ms. Bentley, please you must be reasonable,” Dr. Pinkering said.

  “Reasonable? Reasonable?! My son just had his life ruined and you want me to be reasonable?”

  “Ms. Bentley,” Dr.
Pinkering said, “we are very sorry for the loss of Tyler’s leg. We know what that future could have meant to your family, however—“

  “Is that what you think?! I’m pissed because our family lost out on some money?!” Margie leaned forward and slapped her palms flat on the desk. “Fuck you, you sick sonsabitches. You make me sick.”

  “Again,” Sarconi persisted, “there is nothing here that says this is our fault. I can appreciate you being upset, but coming after us like this isn’t the answer.”

  “And what is? Letting you guys stick another of your cockamamie contraptions in my son? Somebody else’s son?”

  “There is no reason to believe the KnightRunner had anything to do with this,” Sarconi said, defensiveness evident in his tone. From his seat he matched Margie’s stance, leaning forward and staring back at her.

  “So Dr. Manningham was lying when he said he split Tyler’s leg clear to the ankle looking for something he could save? And that all he found was a bunch of shit broken off from your little gizmo?”

  “We still have Tyler’s leg here and with your permission we would like to do a complete dissection of it,” Dr. Pinkering said.

  Margie’s lip curled into a snarl as she swung her head from side to side. “If I find out either one of you has been near that leg, I’m coming back here with my chainsaw in hand and taking one of yours.”

  For the first time, Dr. Pinkering and Sarconi were both wise enough not to question her. Margie remained fixed in place staring down at them for several long moments before pushing herself upright and heading for the door.

  “I’ve already spoken to Dr. Manningham. The minute Tyler is safe to travel, we’re heading back to Wyoming before you two fool around and take both his legs from him.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shane hadn’t slept a full night since accepting the position with Banks, Webster & Cohen. Six solid months of checking the clock every twenty minutes, of waking up at four-thirty and being unable to go back to sleep.

  He hated it, thoroughly despised it in fact, but had long since resigned himself to that being his new reality. It was what it was.

  The problem wasn’t so much a deep-rooted fear of being late, but rather a complete inability to turn off his mind. The moment his eyes flickered open and coherent thought wormed its way into his brain he was off and racing, his mind running through all the things that needed to get done that day.

  Six months of it had turned him into a full blown insomniac. Every morning he was the first to meet a Russian-born immigrant named Victor at his coffee cart on the corner of State Street, the sun still considering whether to make an appearance for the day or not.

  Victor was the only person Shane knew that worked as many hours as he did, and was one of just a couple people that he saw outside the office with any regularity. He also knew Victor was supporting a wife and daughter, was grateful for the business, and had grown up in St. Petersburg under Stalin’s regime.

  That was more than he knew about any of the other friends in his life at the moment.

  From there, Shane made the six block trek to work under the watchful eyes of the downtown Boston streetlights each morning. The cleaning crew in his building always finished their rounds just shy of six-thirty, giving him at least a full half hour to drink his coffee and read the paper in the atrium on the first floor.

  Aside from the occasional low rumble of a janitor pushing a trash bin or mop bucket past, the building was all his.

  At three minutes after six Shane took up his customary chair in the corner and unloaded the bag from his shoulder. He popped the top on his coffee and flipped open the paper, bypassing the Entertainment and Arts sections. He gave a perfunctory glance over the headline news, laughed as he set aside the Money section, and finished up with Sports.

  The front page was consumed by early Red Sox action, the hometown boys fresh off a sweep of the Yankees in their first clash of the season. A local resident for less than a year, Shane read the article with bemused detachment. More than once he’d been needled by Bostonians about the Midwest and their love of college football, never once realizing they were every bit as bad when it came to the Sox.

  The second page was focused on the latest NBA action, the playoffs now less than a month away. The article held even less appeal to him than the sport itself and he flipped it over, lifting his cup for another pull of coffee. The cup made it half way to his lips before being lowered back to the table, his gaze fixed on a headline tucked away in the bottom corner of the fourth page.

  Ohio Tech Star’s Career Cut Short

  Shane set the coffee down and leaned forward, the elbows of his suit coat resting on the table. He lifted the corners of the paper up so the article was just a few inches away from his face and read.

  Ohio Tech running back Tyler Bentley’s career was cut short yesterday when doctors at OTU University Hospital were forced to amputate his right leg several inches above the knee. The University has not issued a statement yet, but it is believed that the amputation is connected to the horrific injury Bentley received to that same leg during the Centennial Bowl.

  “This is a tragic day for Tyler Bentley, for Ohio Tech University and for the entirety of college football,” OTU Coach Bob Valentine stated last night from his home. “Tyler is an outstanding individual, the kind of individual you hate to see have something like this happen to. Our thoughts and prayers are with him.”

  Bentley, coming off a season in which he accounted for over 1,700 all purpose-yards and fourteen touchdowns, was expected to be the favorite in this year’s Heisman race. He was a top five finisher last season.

  Shane dropped the paper onto the table and leaned back in his chair, his index fingers finding his temples and massaging them in even circles.

  “Really a shame, isn’t it?” a voice said, jolting Shane upright. He looked up to see Arthur Webster standing over him, his own coffee in hand and paper folded under his arm.

  Shane swept the paper closed and pushed it off to the side, rising from his chair. “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t realize you were standing there.”

  Webster smiled and waved a hand at him. “Nonsense, I startled you, I should be the one apologizing. May I join you?”

  Shane extended a hand across the table. “By all means.”

  Webster took a seat as Shane lowered himself back into his chair, a slight flush of heat rising to his cheeks. One of the namesake partners of the firm, the man was a veritable icon in New England, someone so far above Shane in the pecking order they had met only once six months before.

  “I assume you were reading the article about the kid from Ohio Tech. Quite a shame.”

  Shane glanced down at the paper in front of him. “Yeah, it is. Tyler’s a heck of a good guy, hate to see something like that happen to him.”

  Webster furrowed his brow and gave Shane a quizzical twist of the head, but said nothing.

  “I attended Ohio Tech for undergrad and law school. Last year I had Tyler as a student in a course I was teaching.”

  Webster’s eyebrows rose a bit and he nodded. “Ah, that makes sense. I knew you were an OTU man, just wasn’t sure how you and Mr. Bentley knew each other.”

  Shane drew his lips tight and nodded his head, forcing himself to keep an even tone. “Yes, sir.”

  The gesture was not lost on Webster, who raised a hand to calm him and chuckled. “Easy now, no need to get offended. I’m not Rex Hartman, I don’t much care where people went to school as long they can do the work.” He paused and took a swig of his own coffee, his eyes locked on the upside down sports page between them. “I find it rather admirable that you made your own path.”

  Shane furrowed his brow and raised his gaze to Webster’s, this time offering the same quizzical look.

  “Your mother was one of the greats, a gentlewoman to deal with and a bulldog in the courtroom. It would have been easy for you to follow in her footsteps to Harvard, go into corporate law, ride her coattails to dizzying heights, but yo
u didn’t. You became your own man and I appreciate that about you.”

  The words hit Shane out of nowhere, as much the subject matter as the praise itself. He could feel his face grow warm and a trickle of sweat form along the small of his back. “Thank you, sir.”

  “How is your mother these days?”

  Just as fast, the blood drained from Shane’s face.

  “The same, sir.”

  Webster looked at Shane for several moments with doleful eyes before reaching out and picking up his coffee. “I should be heading in. Only here one day a month, have to make it count. Have a good day, Shane.”

  “Thank you Mr. Webster, you too.”

  Shane checked his watch and found it approaching six-thirty, but decided to wait a few extra minutes to let Webster be on his way. The man was nice enough, but if any further awkward conversation could be avoided it would be for the best.

  Older people and employers both had a way of doing that. Webster had the extreme misfortune of being both.

  Shane watched as the last of the cleaning crew filed out before taking the elevator up to the two-six. It was a few minutes later than usual, but the place was still deserted. Faint sunlight drifted in through the windows and the scent of cleaning product hung in the air.

  His mind in several places at once, Shane avoided the latest project that was stacked on the corner of his desk and instead went straight to his laptop. While he waited for it to boot up, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around the back of his chair, gave a quick rearranging of the books piled high in front him.

  When his desktop was loaded and ready, Shane went onto the internet and opened the same personal Yahoo Mail account he’d used since he was thirteen years old. He ignored a handful of messages advertising new home interest loans and telling him big beautiful women were looking for him, opting instead to compose a new message.